


Resolution (lite)

by nanda (nandamai)



Series: Resolution (PG) [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-14
Updated: 2003-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nandamai/pseuds/nanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is like a box of chocolates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolution (lite)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Teens version of this story. Read the Explicit version [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/148936).

>It's New Year's Eve and Samantha Carter has had enough.

She spent Christmas with her brother, as always. Her nephew is looking at colleges and starting on his high school's basketball team. Her niece is in love with Justin Timberlake and drawing hearts on her book covers with _Jimmy_ written in them in floral script  and blushing furiously when Sam asked her who Jimmy was.

And Sam  Ph.D., Air Force Major, the top scientific mind of the most important classified base on the planet  has spent the last seven years mooning over a man she can't have.

"I think you just need to get it out of your system," her sister-in-law said, late on the last night, when Mark and the kids had been sent off to bed and the two women were drinking red wine in front of the automated gas fire. "I bet it won't be as great as you're imagining. He's just a guy, Sam."

Strangely, Sam's become closer to Kristin than she ever was to Mark. And all of her girlfriends from the Academy and Washington are in the military  hardly any help.

"I don't know," she said. "It's not a simple thing."

"But I know you, Sam," Kristin said. "You're going to torture yourself about this forever and nothing's ever going to change unless you do something about it."

This was a thought Sam had had before  more than once  and she was just about fed up enough to accept it as truth. She considered the idea of throwing herself at her superior officer. And blushed.

So now it's two days later and it's the colonel's turn to host their annual I'd-rather-be-here-than-spend-the-last-night-of-the-year-alone party. They used to do this for Cassie's benefit, but Cassie's off with her friends now and they're all still here and that, Sam thinks, should tell them something. And Daniel's begged off for the first time, to spend the holidays in Cairo. Maybe he had a better offer, or just bought a clue, Sam doesn't know.

She has way too much to drink and a dinner of pretzels and nachos (Colonel O'Neill's never been one for fancy entertaining). And she turns up their customary flirting a notch, though not, she hopes, so much that the others will notice. She sits a centimeter too close, brushes her hand accidentally on his thigh when she gets up to get another beer, smiles at him just the right way in the kitchen. He returns the smile but it's got an edge of confusion to it, like when he's pretending not to grasp one of her theories.

Sam spins around, heads back to the living room, and imagines the look on his face when she walked away. She sits next to a thoroughly plastered Janet and the two of them start heckling the hideous teenybopper band on the TV.

The ball drops and there's no kissing, there never is. Sam wonders what Cassie thought the first time her boyfriend tried to stick his tongue down her throat at 12:00:01. Teal'c brought the kind of noisemakers that unfurl when you blow them and they all dutifully partake, but Sam notices that the colonel's eyeing her carefully while he does it.

Janet has to leave right away, to make sure Cassie gets home for her 12:30 curfew; Sam says she'll stick around to help clean up and they live in different directions anyway, so there's no use sharing a cab. Teal'c is staying the night and disappears into the guest room soon after Janet goes. Smart man, Teal'c. He was probably onto her the minute she walked through the door.

And now it's just the two of them, at 12:20 AM on the first of January. She sits cross-legged on the couch, shoes still comfortably off, and watches him collect empty bottles. It's hardly a mess; there was no real reason for her to stay, and they both know it.

"So," he drawls a little awkwardly, "Happy New Year, Carter."

"Happy New Year, sir." And the happy little hum that's been buzzing between her legs all night makes her inject a note into the words that wouldn't normally be there.

"Maybe this'll be the one where we finally kick some serious Goa'uld butt, huh?" He looks at her  he probably thinks it's a sly look  and she interprets it easily: _This can't go on forever. Just wait a little while longer. Don't do anything stupid._

So she promptly does something stupid. All those brilliant ideas, it's gotta be her turn to be the dumb one by now.

"I want to get laid," she announces.

He chokes. She intentionally timed it when he was finishing the last of his cheap beer. When he recovers, he starts for the phone and says, "Okay then! One cab, coming right up!"

"No, listen to me." He actually stops and looks at her. It's not often she gets to tell him what to do. She kind of likes it. "You ever think maybe we're making it out to be a much bigger deal than it really is? Maybe it's like  when you're absolutely dying for chocolate, and you have some, and the craving is gone." She knows she sounds ridiculous and drunk and adolescent and probably desperate, too, but she can't quite care enough to stop.

He stands in the middle of his living room, still patting his chest and sputtering a little, the recycling bin dangling from one hand. The bottles are going to fall out if he's not careful. "Chocolate," he says stupidly. He's had a lot to drink, too.

Right  he's not a huge chocolate fan. "Donuts, then," she says, knowing quite well that won't make any sense when she's sober.

"Uh-huh."

He finishes the bottles and retreats into the kitchen; she can hear him washing his hands. "You really think one chocolate-covered donut is gonna help?" he asks as he returns. And she can tell by the way he's carefully not looking at her that she's starting to piss him off. And she likes that.

"Shit, I don't know," she admits. "I'm just so tired of this. This little game we play. Worrying what other people might think. Masturbating alone on Saturday nights."

He ignores the last because he's fixated on the first, and his eyes are dark as he sits beside her. Too close, like she was earlier.

"I have never played games with you," he says in that voice that means he's about to erupt. She likes that, too.

She knows it's cruel and at least partially untrue but she says it anyway. "Haven't you?"

"No. And if that's all you think it is, then  Jesus, Carter."

She starts to relent, half-decides to apologize and take it all back, but she's drunk too much courage tonight and the solo sex is getting really, really old and maybe Kristin was right, after all. Maybe he's just an itch she needs to scratch.

"You can't even say my name," she says, and recognizes it as the worst kind of emotional manipulation even as the words come out of her mouth.

He frowns. "I say it. When  you know  " His eyebrows dive together, his jaw working furiously. "On Saturday nights."

She smiles at that, delighted, and lays a hand on the slight bulge in his khakis.

His eyes roll back in his head. "Jesus," he says. "I  you  this is a really stupid idea, Carter."

"I don't care." She squeezes and he sucks in a desperate breath. He's just a guy, she tells herself. He won't say no and she's about to get what she's always wanted and it all seems so, so simple right now and she's not going to ruin it with thoughts of tomorrow.

So she leans in for a furious kiss, forces her tongue into his mouth, tastes anger and desperation and joy and need. She rises up on her knees so she can throw one leg over him, straddling his lap, and holds his face still with both hands. His tongue melts under hers and his arms rise to circle her back, pulling her closer to his chest, and she knows she's won.

His head tilts on the back of the couch. She reluctantly leaves his lips to nibble at his throat; the stubble feels sharp and dangerous against her mouth. She's so pale that she gets rashes from this but she wants him to mark her, on her face and elsewhere.

He uses both hands to drag her hips down until they're in full contact. "Oh, God, Sam," he says into her ear. Then he pulls her head back up to meet his, for another burning kiss.

She reaches between her own legs and under his shirt, trying to find his belt, but he grabs her wrist. "Not here," he says breathlessly. "Teal'c. C'mon."

His bed is unmade, two piles of dirty laundry  whites and darks  on the floor. She's been here exactly twice but both times were with backup. So she hangs back a little nervously by the door, then decides that's ridiculous and starts pulling off her own clothes.

"Don't," he says, though he's already loosening his pants to relieve the obvious pressure. "I wanna do it."

They share a smile and she lets him lead her by the hand to the bed.

Samantha Carter wakes up two hours after falling asleep, runs to the bathroom, and throws up.

It's always been like this, her metabolism so quick that her hangover can't wait until morning. But he's there behind her in just a few seconds, rubbing her back and whispering, "It's okay, it's okay." He wraps a bathrobe around her, hands her tissues and a wet facecloth, and does he really have to be so damn _nice_?

Finally, she leans back against the tub and groans.

He stands long enough to draw her a glass of water. "I'll try not to take that personally," he says, sitting back down, naked, on the tiles.

She snorts  it tastes like bile, disgusting  and pulls the bathrobe closer around her body. She's freezing. "Not you," she says, accepting the glass. She takes a few tentative sips. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it. It's hardly the first time I've seen you blow chunks."

The image is almost enough to make her dive for the toilet again. She puts the water on the rim of the tub. "Lovely," she says.

He gives her that boyish grin of his, but it fades quickly. "Didn't know you were that drunk," he says, troubled.

"I didn't think I was. Shit." She's still not entirely sober. She covers her face with her hands. "I'm sorry."

There's a long pause, and then he says, "It's not exactly a night I'll remember with revulsion, Carter."

"No. Not about that. I  shit."

"Carter? You okay?"

She reaches for the water, takes a long drink, and looks at him. "Truth?"

"Uh. Sure?" And he's wearing a sort of lost, hopeful, I'm-so-about-to-get-dumped expression that makes her heart hurt.

"God, I am going to kill Kristin," she mutters.

He plays dumb, and it's almost comforting, familiar. "The truth is that you're going to kill your sister-in-law?"

"Ugh. I  " Oh, this is hard. "I never really thought it was like chocolate," she says quietly. "I'm sorry I said that."

"Ah."

"I was just kind of hoping."

"Would've been a lot more convenient," he agrees, kindly. And he nods a little, understanding.

She thinks carefully  as carefully as she can, because she's even more aware now that she's not fully in possession of her faculties and, damn, how much _did_ she drink last night?  and finally admits, a little shyly, "It was a horrible analogy anyway. I'm completely addicted to chocolate."

He smiles a sweet, soft smile. "I'm pretty crazy about donuts, myself."

So now she's shivering, she's still a little drunk, she's sitting half-naked on a bathroom floor with her boss, she's got way too many emotions rushing at her, and she's either going to throw up again or cry or both. Her eyes fill up painfully and she looks at him, helpless.

"C'mon back to bed," he says.

She nods dumbly and keeps the bathrobe on and he pulls the covers over them both. She curls into his arms, spooning, grateful.

"It'll be okay," he whispers into her hair on the pillow. "We'll be okay."

"We can't do that again," she says.

"No. But it'll be okay." And she wants so badly to believe him.

In the morning Teal'c is up early, watching the parade; Sam's sure it's so he won't be around to see who emerges from which bedroom door. She hears the television from the living room and hopes they weren't too loud.

The colonel is beside her, reading a magazine, his glasses on. She never sees his glasses. She's on her side, facing him, and she takes a minute to admire the curve of his bicep while he turns a page, the curling pattern on the inside of his ear, his strong, flat chest, even the kind way he's pretending not to notice she's awake.

 _So_ not out of her system.

"I don't want to go," she says, finally.

He puts down the magazine, takes off his glasses, and slides back under the covers to face her. "I told you. This is gonna be the year we blow those snaky bastards to hell." It's a promise, and it's something. But they share a long look and his eyes are saying, _I don't want you to go, either._

She looks away and asks if she can use his shower.

So now it's January second, and Samantha Carter is half an hour early for work. As she waits at the elevator on Level 11, her CO appears at the security check-in.

"Good morning, sir," she says. She just barely avoids raising her hand to her cheeks to make sure her stubble rash is gone.

"Morning, major. Happy New Year."

The elevator door closes behind them and he looks her up and down and no, he's not lingering at the apex of her thighs  she's got to be imagining that. But he's holding a bag in one hand and she knows immediately what's in it, the bakery smell filling the small space.

"Brought donuts," he says, not quite smiling. "The chocolate ones are just for you."


End file.
